


Songbird, You Need to Sharpen Your Talons

by sofancydancy (Lthien)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt hates himself and thinks he doesn't deserve anything or anyone nice, Geralt is a giant leather-clad himbo, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, I just wanted to type that out, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sad Geralt, The Witcher - Freeform, also a big sad, not beta-d grammarly saved my ass though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22903960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lthien/pseuds/sofancydancy
Summary: Sometimes Geralt felt born from a smither’s rough hand. He was once soft, but then beat until anything soft turned into the edge of a blade. Until…anything human was ripped from him and replaced with speed, agility…mutation.So, in all his sharp edges, Geralt raged at Jaskier everything that he could: the Child of Surprise, the djinn, Yennefer, every damn horrid thing that happened to him upon opening his eyes into the world that hated his kind; but made him all the same.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 158





	Songbird, You Need to Sharpen Your Talons

**Author's Note:**

> That title? I have no clue...but it sounds dramatic, right? I may start a drabble thing, or continue this...I'm not sure what I'm doing, tbh. I just wanted some Geralt whump and to dig deeper into the slight eye-roll that Geralt gave the mountainside when Jaskier left. I mean, it was like he was just listening to the stones underneath Jaskier's boots as he walked away from him...and I have feelings about it, okay. 
> 
> Then again, I can take this, run with it, and create a whole crap-ton of whump for both these boys. The choice is yours...run with it, or leave it? Lolll

In the silence that followed Jaskier leaving, Geralt truly hated himself. He hated himself for many things over the decades he roamed the Continent. But, if there was one person that did not deserve the consequence of knowing Geralt of Rivia, it was Jaskier.

He was _too bright._

Even after the near two decades they had known each other, Jaskier’s brightness never seemed to fade. It would dim now and then, and Geralt feared that it would snuff out like so many other bright things in the world, but it never did.

That is until Geralt threw everything that had bottled up in his chest for nearly one hundred years at Jaskier; the much too bright Jaskier. The man who followed him through years of shit and pain. No, he didn’t deserve it. Jaskier deserved the nobility that he damned, and the riches and comforts that being of Lettenhove could bore him. All the soft things that Geralt could not, or afford to, give him; and Geralt was anything but _soft._

Sometimes he felt born from a smither’s rough hand. He was once _soft,_ but then beat until anything soft turned into the edge of a blade. Until…anything human was ripped from him and replaced with speed, agility… _mutation._

So, in all his sharp edges, Geralt raged at Jaskier everything that he could: the Child of Surprise, the djinn, Yennefer, every damn horrid thing that happened to him upon opening his eyes into the world that hated his kind; but made him all the same.

His words, though spat at Jaskier, were meant for so many others...but Jaskier was there. He was _there_ , as he always was, and that was the real problem, wasn’t it? Jaskier was there when all others left, and Geralt only wanted to _feel_ the bite of the wind that blustered through the mountains— _feel_ what he had always felt at times like this: alone, cold, and never-changing. At that moment, that's all he wanted…The very same silence that bore him when he was turned mutant; that followed when his eyes—that he faintly remembers being blue—turned topaz.

So, he got what he wanted. Geralt stood after Jaskier finally left, feeling that silence again in nearly twenty years, and he _hated it._ He deserved it though, and more, and could not bring himself to turn towards Jaskier’s brightness anymore. Or, could not acknowledge how that brightness snuffed out _so quickly_. It was his fault, as he had feared that it would over the years, that Jaskier’s light was gone.

Now, the wind bit much harder than he remembered it had before Jaskier left. It was too cold and the wind was too loud, but Geralt stood on the edge for many hours. He watched until the sun threatened to dip beneath the horizon of the mountains and his bones ached from being still for so long. When he finally moved, he felt ancient down to his very bones. More so when he descended the mountain that held too many rancid emotions that Geralt could almost _taste_ them _._


End file.
